


A Good Mate

by Goodneighbor_Neighbor (Fan_by_Proxy)



Series: Commonwealth Kinks [2019 Prompt List] [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Animalistic, Cervical Penetration, F/M, Humiliation, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pregnancy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stalking, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23957539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fan_by_Proxy/pseuds/Goodneighbor_Neighbor
Summary: Turns out, the double-tap rule should be applied to Raiders as well as Ghouls.  As the Sole Survivor returns to the Commonwealth after cleaning out Nuka-World, the one left behind is hot on her trail and ready to drag her back to the Den.
Relationships: Mason/Female Sole Survivor
Series: Commonwealth Kinks [2019 Prompt List] [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727050
Comments: 12
Kudos: 86





	A Good Mate

****[Nuka-World, Pack Base]** **

Pack dead, smoke everywhere, cages unlocked and Gage staring at him with glassy unseeing eyes; he should get up, he should throw everything he had left at the bitch _the Overboss_ but Mason’s body wasn’t doing shit but hurting. He could only lie there, face nearly in a pile of shit and bleeding all over, while _she_ unlocked the cages, put guns in the hands of weak idiots, broke with the natural order of things.

Then, on her way out the door to no doubt break down the rest of the gangs, she turned back and looked at him. Blue-green eyes like a fresh mash of face paint cut through the smoke and garbage and hit him as hard as the knife in his gut had hit. That bitch _the Overboss_ had a figure made for breeding, and at that moment, outlined by smoke and firelight, with those hard eyes, Mason suddenly understood: Packs need a strong Alpha, and a strong Alpha needs a mate just as strong who knows their place. He was on the ground, in the shit and _still alive_ and she was standing tall and dangerous, a nuclear tiger of fire and knives and curves, letting him know with a hard look that he’d better keep living. Oh, and he was _going_ to live through it: Mason didn’t back down from a challenge from anybody, especially when it came to mating.

***

Yvette surveyed the chaos, barely able to make out Mason’s massive form through the smoke and garbage. It had been a lucky stick, and he’d damn near crushed her going down. There was, even after this time, a tinge of regret at the loss of life. But these were Raiders, and they all had to be stopped. Nuka-World _had_ to be freed, for the good of its people and the Commonwealth.

A noise piqued her caution and she turned away from the door, trying again to peer through the smoke. She stared good and hard at the scene, eyes alert for any movement, finger on the trigger. It was a long look, probably too long, but she had to be sure. Couldn’t exactly carry on getting rid of Raiders if one jumped out of the shadows and stabbed her in the back, now could she?

****[The Commonwealth]** **

It took some time to get to his feet, hiding in shadows and swiping the necessities like a goddamn weakling; but staying alive was the priority. Dead men don’t mate, after all. Mason crossed from Nuka-World to the Commonwealth proper, following a trail that by all rights should have been winter-cold by then. But this was his mate’s territory and her scent was _everywhere_. It wasn’t the way he would’ve claimed things, wasn’t quite the Pack way, all the benevolence and generators and water pumps and un-collared settlers…but the weaklings were loyal in a different way from the slaves, and that was something. Catching up to her was going to take just as much luck as skill; but Mason could be patient. For a chance to prove himself to his mate? He could be _real_ patient.

***

Coming back from Nuka-World should’ve felt like a victory tour; three huge Raider groups defeated, a new powered place for traders and settlers to use? The Minute Men were overjoyed at the news, ready to set up a recruiting station there and everything. But Yvette could not shake the feeling of being watched, and it was unsettling. Even worse than when the Institute was running and she really _was_ being watched constantly at a distance by some faction or other.

She confessed the resurgence of paranoia to Preston one evening after too many looks over the shoulder. It was something like a mistake; Quincy and then Concord had broken him a little, and the idea that his friend and General might be under threat, even from her own imagination? Well…he’d set up a rotating guard and suddenly she couldn’t open a tin of meat without someone at her shoulder making forced idle conversation.

Yes, admitting the paranoia had _definitely_ been a mistake. Traveling with a guarded entourage felt like even more of a target on her back than usual. Yvette would have to master this paranoia, rationalize it away, and convince Preston and the others to _get off her back_.

****[Oberland Station*]** **

The rationalization came easy; of _course_ she had lingering paranoia. A couple of months balancing three Raider groups while she figured out the best way to get rid of them and survive would make even the sternest, steadiest hand tremble. It made sense to her, and to the rotation that had come with her to Greygarden to reestablish control of the nearby water plant. Once they got it cleaned up and back to the railroad tracks, and she explained herself, Yvette only had to sternly order them to carry on ahead of her once.

And now she was alone: mercifully, _blissfully_ alone at last. Peace, quiet, and fresh water from the pump in a bucket. The old watch station wasn’t big enough to support a tub, but she could at least wipe the sweat from beneath her arms and breasts, cool off in the quiet while the razorgrain rustled in the breeze. Yvette sighed, relishing the not-quite bath with lukewarm water and shirt scrap. A half-bath, a nap, then a campfire supper followed by a full night’s un-watched sleep: 200 year years ago she would have balked at such a rustic night, but things where different, and she was adapting.

The feeling of being watched popped up sharp as Yvette tipped the bath water onto the wild mutfruit bush growing beside the building. She set the bucket down fast, yanked her shirt on, and headed up the stairs to set up the turret. A second floor space, only one easy access with a turret guarding it, and she could barricade the door with the old iron bed that was up there, and the bookcase too. The windows were a little worrisome, but one was small and the wild mutfruit bush was underneath it, blocking a clear path with thorny perseverance. The larger window had a good field of view and no trees nearby to use for a ladder. Those facts combined with a nap would stifle the watched feeling well.

***

Hunkering down in the brush that intertwined with the rusting hulk of an old train car, Mason watched and waited. The binoculars he’d taken from a mouthy and now-dead settler were great; he could hang back further from his mate, keep his scent downwind and keep eyes on her at the same time. She looked good in those little glass circles, _especially_ at that moment.

Alone at the foot of a lookout tower, washing herself from a bucket, with her hair down and breasts bare and wet and full. He licked his lips, imagining the salt on his lips was her sweat. Once he got his mouth on them, he’d suck and bite them to rosy pink and red, bruised violet, relish his time with them before the milk came in. Mason shifted to a better position, a squat, eyes still trained on his mate, but now he could get his pants open and hand around his cock. He pumped it ferociously as she dragged a grey swatch across her chest and up and down her neck; Mason wanted to lick the rolling water droplets, catch them on the tip of his tongue before they could make their way down to the waist band of her pants, taste the dust on her skin before it was carried away.

Just his luck, he thought as he give his cock a good hard squeeze, to love a tiger; all the sensible danger of a beast and the obtuseness of a mouser. That was how it was though sometimes though; mating wasn’t about matching, it was about suiting. Sometimes mating was for life, sometimes it was just for a season, sometimes it was the thing that got you killed right after the deed was done; whatever suited. 

Mason’s breathing stuttered, vision wavering as he stroked himself to a finish and his mate stood and stretched, on display for him. She didn’t need feathers or stripes to get his attention. As his mate tossed the wash water out, he kicked dust over the considerable puddle of spunk on the ground and tucked himself away. Some fools thought holding back would make you a better breeder; all that did was make you sloppy. Careless. Try to mount a woman without intending to make her pleased and docile, you deserved to get your goddamn brains blown out. And Mason was _very_ sure his mate would _definitely_ blow his goddamn brains out if she wasn’t totally satisfied.

That real threat was almost enough to rile him up again as Mason watched her pull a shirt on haphazardly, climb the stairs and set up a turret before going inside the building. Door closed, and he could count on it being barricaded. A secure little temporary nest he was going to have to figure out how to get in and survive long enough to get between her thighs.

Mason scaled the siding, fingers digging into the softening material and pulling himself up carefully. Meant leaving his boots on the ground, but that just meant less to take off when he finally got inside. The room was small both in the floor and its height, and he was glad that their activities were going to be more horizontal than vertical.

His mate was asleep on her back on the old mattress, just hair and long legs and that shirt riding up to show she _had_ sensed him near. Mason didn’t hesitate to pull off the rest of his clothes, keeping his movements small and deliberate to keep from giving himself away. He knelt beside the bed, counting her in-and-out breaths, watching the steady rise-and-fall of those soft breasts, patient. When she didn’t so much as twitch a lash when he eased the pistol out of her grip and tucked it under an overturned pot, Mason knew it was _finally_ time.

After stowing her gun, he leaned forward, eyes on her face as he cautiously flicked his tongue across her nipple. Her breast bounced a little, but she didn’t flinch. He flicked again, then dragged his tongue along her breast, savoring the springy feel of her skin. It killed him that he could not clamp down, bite, suck on her proper; but he knew from other partners that _that_ would wake her. The cold of his spit drying on her skin would tease, tantalize, but not awaken; the heat of his hungry mouth would. So Mason settled for licking and tasting her breasts, flicking the nipples, holding his breath every time she moved in her sleep.

Her legs spread slowly under his attention, the smell of her arousal heady and strong. He longed to bury his face in the smell, drive his tongue deep, drink her down like a man dying of thirst. And truth be told, if he hadn’t spent _months_ nursing himself on stolen chems and tracking his mate all over the goddamn Commonwealth, that’s exactly what he’d do. But Mason was ready to present himself to his mate, eager to rut her and have her approval, claim her and _be_ claimed by her. He eased onto the mattress, being careful and slow as he slid his hands up her legs to her hips. She frowned in her sleep, lips parting; time was up.

Mason tightened his grip on her hips and dragged her into him as he pushed his hips forward, impaling her. _That_ woke her up fully, and she roared; throaty and raspy, hands curling to fists and trying to strike him. He relished the tension in her body, how she fought him and stroked him at the same time.

“Gotcha.” he growled, catching her wrists and pinning them to the mattress above her head and holding them there with one hand. She had just enough room to flex her fingers and dig her claws into the side of his hand. He groaned as she drew blood, free hand grabbing her breast and squeezing, running down her stomach and feeling his own cock through her skin as he thrust. His size made every girl a tight fit, but this time it was different; special even. He was going to wear his mate’s wetness from gut to nut, for as long as possible. “That’s right, open up for me, open up and lemme in.” he murmured, looking down at their joining and grinning.

Her cunt stretched tight around him, hair glistening with sweat and arousal, her nub red and angry and standing up as tall as it could manage. He gripped the angry little thing between his thumb and forefinger, pinching it and rolling it, grunting at the rewarding squeeze around his cock and her outraged shriek.

“Didn’t think I knew about this, didja? Ain’t my first Rut.” Mason taunted, letting go of her wrists and grabbing her waist to pull her into his thrusts again, aiming deep. Normally when he did that to a girl, they’d scream and faint, or at the very least go limp; totally overwhelmed. But not his mate; despite the screams his cock was punching out of her, she was still ready to fight. Her nails drew bloody tracks down his arms, gave his chest a few good swipes; Mason was ready to let it go until she managed to get those nails down and jab his cock as he drew back. 

_That_ hurt, and he let his temper show a little, clocking her hard enough to make her head loll and her body relax just a little bit. “God _damn_ it,” Mason swore even as he continued pumping her, “not before I get you bred.” he snarled, grabbing her wrists and crossing her arms across her chest, pinning her shoulders to the mattress with the hold. _Now_ he had her, now she couldn’t claw or bite, couldn’t get her feet down to kick because of his body; he panted, grinding hard, feeling that special little pop and squeeze around his tip that told him he had gotten to the breeding place and it was time to unload as she shrieked beneath him.

The orgasm was better than anything before, because it was in his _mate_ and he was deep in her breeding spot, and he was proving himself. Mason didn’t bother pulling out even as he felt the last little spurt hit home; he’d wear his mate on his cock for a few hours, present a little longer and prove his stamina before testing his luck and letting her up.

***

Washing dishes at the sink and gazing off idly, smiling to herself as Martin paraded up and down the backyard with that temperamental mower. Yvette knew when he came in he’d be wound up and randy; getting sweaty always put him in the mood. In all fairness though, there was very little that went on that could not convince him to _rise_ to the occasion. He was voracious, and she loved him for it--no shame could be cast when neither one of them had room to talk.

The water in the sink splashed up, catching her chest. “ _Merde_ ,” she muttered under her breath, going to brush the suds away. That only succeeded in making her dress wetter; she would have to change before Martin came in because she liked this dress and if Martin came in and saw the fabric clinging to her body, he would pull at least two buttons off in eagerness.

“You look amazing” He purred in her ear, hands on her hips where they always went when they were alone.

Yvette frowned; she hadn’t seen him come in, and there was a smell in her nose that wasn’t cut grass or cologne or Abraxo, but it was one she knew. It was--

Waking up to a manically grinning dead man forcing his cock into her was _not_ any kind of wake-up call to receive. Yvette tried to shout, but sleep clogged her throat and stifled much of the noise she could make. She tried to lash out one-handed, other hand grasping for the revolver that was _supposed_ to be nearby, but the dead man grinned, showing those large white teeth as he muttered “Gotcha” and grabbed her wrists, pinning them to the mattress.

His hands were massive, _too big_ , holding both her wrists with just one. All she could do was try to claw his skin, try to draw blood and get loose. His other hand, free to wander, settled on her abdomen like he was going to stroke himself through her. Martin had been large like this, had been thick, could make her belly bounce in and out with the strength of his thrusts like this; but this was _not_ Martin, not her Martin, and he did not have the _right_ to do this to her! She snarled but that only seemed to spur the dead man on.

“That’s right,” he purred, “Open up for me, open up and let me in…” he cooed, moving his hand away and letting her see the invasion, the burning split between her lips, the rise and fall of her body as his cock rearranged her insides. To make matters worse, more unkind, she could see her own body’s betrayal--her clit, puffy and red, standing up like it was just another Sunday morning with her husband and not a dead man’s touch.

He saw it too, smirking and pinching it between his fingers. The pads of his fingers were rough and ridged, just more abuse to heap on as he tugged at her. “Didn’t think I knew about _this_ , didja?” he taunted. “Ain’t my first _Rut,”_ he growled as he gave her clit a harsh twist. 

Yvette couldn’t help screaming as betrayal rose up wet and hard, making her tense and jump; it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t _right_ , she should not be driven to climax by a grinning dead man using her body like a toy! She couldn’t even hide the fact, stretched to the limit as she was; the dead man growled and grabbed her waist, and she knew if she did not stop him then, he was going to go too deep and too far and she hadn’t come across a doctor in the Commonwealth yet who took care of those matters.

So she fought; punching was pointless, her fists bouncing off him as harmless as water droplets. Her nails though, they got his attention. Yvette jabbed and clawed as far as she could reach, trying to get his eyes, his nipples, some soft vulnerable place on his wrist, just _anywhere_ to get him to relax his grip enough she could get leverage to get away. But the dead man was just too big, too leathery from the world state…except in one place. Yvette reached down with both hands and did her best to bury all ten nails into the massive tool violating her senses.

“ _GODDAMN IT!”_ the dead man roared.

Yvette hadn’t seen the punch coming, but the stars it left behind in its wake and the ringing in her ears told her what had happened. Disoriented and uncoordinated, she couldn’t pull her arms away before the dead man grabbed them.

“Oh no, not before I get you bred.” he hissed, crossing her arms over her chest and holding her wrists to her shoulders. Then he shifted to his knees, throwing the whole weight of his body into his hips.

Yvette could barely breathe, feeling another traitorous tightening in her core as the dead man bore down. He was going to punch straight through her at this rate--the sharp sting as his tremendous head breached her cervix brought bile to the back of her throat. The dead man grinned; he knew what he had done, he _knew_ \--and he was delighting in it. With the last breath she could muster, she screamed as loud and as hard as she could; it was to try to summon some kind of help, not because of _another_ traitorous orgasm ripped through at the first warm wash of cum.

The dead man took forever to finish, and he didn’t have the courtesy to just pull out once he was done. No, no he barely pulled back enough to let her catch her breath, only _just_ shrinking to a manageable size as he softened. At some point he’d let go of her wrists and let her arms drop limply back onto the bed. The dead man massaged her stomach, rumbling deep in his chest.

“Just like that.” he murmured.

She didn’t know what it meant, didn’t care. She just had to wake up from this nightmare; the only dead man she wanted fucking her that deep and rough was Martin--and only on the occasion she was in a place safe enough to finish herself off. “I _hate_ you.” Yvette managed to get out.

The dead man didn’t seem to hear her.

***

Three days of hard fucking, of trying to give her _everything_ he had inside. Her thighs were chafed raw and they were both covered in scratches; there’d even be a bad moment where she’d found the revolver and tried to take his ear off. Now Mason couldn’t hear too well out of the left ear, but he’d gotten the gun away and thrown it out the window. Then, just to show there were no hard feelings and he understood her concerns, Mason held her on his lap and fingered her until she wet herself before sliding in to unload in her breeding place.

He was just starting to wonder what they would do for food; her stores were running low but his mate hadn’t _quite_ settled in enough. That was alright; she hadn’t tried to _kill_ him-kill him, which meant he wasn’t rejected. Just had to keep proving himself until she accepted or outright killed him. That was the way it was sometimes in the kingdom.

Unfortunately, their time was cut off by a troupe of those do-gooder Minute morons; they’d come with guns and even a set of Power Armor. Mason didn’t _like_ running from a fight, especially one that’d shape up to be halfway decent, but the Power Armor shifted the odds just enough out of his favor that he chose to run. So he settled for grabbing up his mate fast and kissing those succulent rough lips for all they were worth. “Find you again.” he promised before diving out of the window that had let him into her little nest to begin with. Tucking and rolling took most of the shock out of the landing, and the downhill slope gave him a little speed push that took him out of harm’s way, mostly.

A couple of the fools tried to follow him, but they were too soft. Didn’t have eyes on the world, and loud as fresh-dropped Brahmin calves. Easy targets; his mate _really_ needed to get a better kind of man to watch her back. “Guess that’s my job anyways.” he muttered to himself as he stripped the corpses of their goods and made ready to track her again.

***

The dead man was insatiable; every time Yvette thought he was asleep, cock-dazed and empty, she tried to make her escape. When he’d caught her at the window, he’d bent her over and fucked her, half-in and half-out of the building. When she’d lucked into a gun, he took it away and then pinned her down and made her take his fingers until she couldn’t breathe before shoving right back in. Every time, _every time_ he did it, she managed to come. Her body was an unholy traitor, she thought. Or maybe it was just trying to survive the onslaught. Getting away without any help was out of the question. But she was still alive, and she could figure something out. She just had to _think_.

Thinking was getting harder the longer this went on; she was hungry and tired and sore, beat inside and out, and humiliated to boot. But there was a moment, a brief shining moment of good luck: the dead man _fell asleep_. Sprawled on the bed, arms and legs hanging off like a comedy sketch, chest rumbling, asleep _._

Yvette picked through her pack as quietly as she could manage, freezing every time the snores stuttered or something rattled as she shifted around her pack. Buried at the bottom, under some cotton wadding, was an old flare gun. A distant memory, Preston’s words--she had her out!

Going to the window, Yvette leaned out and fired off the flare; there were three in the gun and she sent them all up in the sky. Any settlement nearby would see it, if any of the Men were around, they’d see three and know there was a _big_ problem. All she had to do was wait and survive.

When she heard a trumpet call, she nearly wept. Even if it meant meeting them bare-ass naked and covered in bruises, Yvette was glad for their arrival. Peering out the smaller window, she even saw a set of Power Armor-- _bless_ Sturges and his ingenuity!

The dead man had sense enough at least to not want to take that on; his final unkindness was to press a musky, scratchy, invasive kiss and threaten her before diving out the larger window. Yvette had enough time to pull on a layer of clothes before the door started rattling. “I am barricaded in!” she called. 

“We’ve got two men on him General!” an unfamiliar voice called. “We’ll meet you at the window, and catch you!”

She didn’t relish any man touching her, let alone landing on one or two. But it was amazing what she did in the face of no choices. The group who had come in response to her flares were curious, eyes bright and staring, taking stock of the bruises and the scratches.

“Beatings. Lots and lots of beatings.” Yvette told them glibly, which was both true and untrue. That was the last time she would try to rationalize away that ‘watched’ feeling; she wouldn’t risk the dead man making good on his threat to come back.

****[Fort Hagen, Red Rocket Stop]** **

Yvette thought she’d done a decent job scavenging this Red Rocket the last time she’d come around Fort Hagen; but in all fairness, she had been one woman with a dog and a detective and distracted, to say the least. The ghouls had done a decent job keeping most everyone else away, seeming to pop up like weeds through the broken pavement. It was old hat, clearing them out and then picking through the buildings. Preston had hesitated at the request to do such a thing; the Minute Men were protectors of the Commonwealth after all, not scavengers. But a few good solid points about the potential caches and necessary evils of scrapping from Sturges, and he was at least convinced to go. After the incident at Oberland Station--that was what it was referred to in polite circles, _the incident_ \--he hadn’t left Yvette’s side. There weren’t too many seasoned Minute Men left, and he figured even with a troupe of greenhorns, he could at least muster them into a better protection detail than the last.

But the road to hell was paved with only the best intentions, and without meaning to, he had gone too far around the other side of the building and left Yvette alone on the inside.

She was on her knees, checking out the safe in the manager’s office. “Who in the _fuck_ puts a hairbrush in the safes? _Honestly_!” Exasperated, she threw the brush over her shoulder, missing that it didn’t cause a ruckus hitting the floor, too engrossed with sorting useless papers from decent scrap.

Suddenly, Yvette found herself dragged backwards away from the safe, an arm around her throat and teeth biting down on her ear. She shrieked; she had been found.

***

The weaklings had tightened up around his mate; still not good enough to hide her away, not good enough to cover their tracks. But they had proved to be a minor hindrance, and Mason had to respect that. He was disappointed to see his mate’s belly still flat, but sometimes that was the way it was. This time he’d do the job right, this time she’d see his full worth.

They were combing through the garbage in a still-standing city. Lots of corners, lots of walls, lots of places to hide and wait. So that’s what Mason did, watching the little group spread thinner, helping them thin out by quietly taking out the stragglers. The one they kept calling Preston though, he was a little too alert and on-watch. Worse even, his mate seemed fond of the man, which meant Mason _probably_ shouldn’t snap his neck and loot his corpse. He’d have to be clever. So he gathered up some empty tin cans, and started throwing them down an alley. The rattling was loud, distracting, carrying oddly through the twisting streets. That should get the watcher curious, get him moving.

Mason waited, and sure enough the watchdog came out of the Rocket, gun at the ready, tiptoeing around the corner. Guy had an admirably soft walk; good for thieving, or ambush. And speaking of ambushing…

Easing through the doorway without hitting his head required some contorting, and he nearly tipped the empty magazine rack over on his way in. Luck and reflex and the sacrifice of a nail kept his entering a secret still. A rustling from the little office told him all he needed to know.

Mason couldn’t stifle his excited growl at the sight of that round ass and those strong thighs. He opened his pants carefully, stroking himself to hardness as his mate muttered and didn’t seem at all aware. She was in a playful mood; that was a good sign. Even better, without looking at him, she threw a piece of junk at him and he caught it easy, setting it on the shelf behind without a sound before bending down and grabbing her ankles to drag her into position.

She fought, of course--he was still trying to seduce her, after all, she _couldn’t_ make it easy--kicking him in the face and scrambling on hands and knees to get out of the room. Mason followed easily; she’d only caught his cheek, not his nose, with the kick. He caught her by the back of the neck and dragged her to her feet. Her pulse was wild and strong and that just made him want her _more_. Mason set her on the counter on her back, grabbing great handfuls of her shirt and tearing it down the middle; the armor under her shirt was odd and didn’t really want to tear, so he shoved it under her chin so he could grab and squeeze her flesh.

His mate was still kicking, digging red rails down his arms just like before. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it right this time.” Mason promised as he pulled and tore at her pants until she was on display. She managed to jab him in the eye with a finger, but it was only fair since he was about to jab her with something _considerably_ larger.

Grabbing her around the waist, Mason pulled his mate onto his cock. It was tougher this time; no time to warm her up, he’d have to warm her up as he fucked her. “Little bit more, little bit, you’re doin’ good.” he said softly, meaning to soothe her like a lying-in bitch.

She babbled something at him, swung at him, eyes hard.

Mason shuddered, gathering her legs to press them to her chest. He discovered he could hook his arms around her this way, lock his hands behind her neck and keep her in this good breeding position. She was starting to get wet, face red as she panted. “That’s right, that’s right, just like this.” he panted.

The counter was a great height for his hips; he could hold her and breed her and not worry about his back or her falling. It wasn’t too many thrusts before he was back in her breeding place, popping through its resistance to the sound of her shrieking. He groaned, pulling her into his thrusts to feel that pinch and scrape as his head slid in and out of it; she was soaking him, the smell of her sex thick in the air. Next time, he promised himself, _next time_ he would dive face first between her thighs and not come up until he was wearing her slickness all over his face like a fresh stripe of paint.

Just the thought of reveling in her taste and smell that way pushed him close to the edge, which was good because they were caught.

***

Again, Yvette couldn’t breathe, couldn’t really think, struggling to stay conscious as the nightmare happened all over again. A dead man deeper than deep in her again, and her unable to stop him. It was miserable and humiliating, and this time she knew she would be bloody after; there was no way not to be the way he’d ripped her pants apart and just forced himself in. She swore at him, struggled to make enough noise to get help. This time they would _see_ their General gutted open by a monstrous cock, this time there would be no polite assumptions-that-were-not-mentioned, they would _know_ what was done to her, but it didn’t matter. She had to get free, she _needed_ help!

Darkness crowded the edges of her vision and shooting stars left blinding streaks in what she could see when she heard Preston’s beautiful shout. But then the dead man wrapped his hands around her throat and started to squeeze as he growled in Preston’s direction. Yvette clawed at his hands, trying to get her eyes on Preston. If she could get him to see her, she could tell him to shoot anyway, take the risk, don’t let this happen to her.

It was _humiliating_ ; no hiding her body, no hiding the sudden rush of arousal around that massive cock that filled the Rocket with unmistakable musk and noise. She couldn’t breathe, she was humiliated, _this was not the time_ but the heat gathering in her belly and the dead man’s insistent bashing through her cervix, the pain and forced pleasure mixing until she broke, shrieking again as her arousal puddled on the counter. The dead man finished but didn’t let go, didn’t pull out. He moved with her still impaled on his cock, moving like he would bound away with her just there, a limp extra appendage at his waist for the rest of a miserable traitorous life.

“Please--” she managed to get out as an explosion rattled the mechanic’s section.

The dead man snarled, pulling her off and dropping her on the ground without fanfare, loping out of the store before the others could line up their shots. Preston rushed to her side, shrugging out of his jacket and wrapping it around her, face dark with mortification and rage. “General, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry--

“Don’t. Don’t.” she managed to rasp. “Until he is dead…I have to stay in one place. With walls. Guards. Witnesses.” Yvette said bitterly, ignoring the electric tingle that went through her from clit to nipple. Only a very sick woman would _want_ more witnesses to this kind of humiliation, and she was only a minorly sick woman. That had been a tease between her and Martin. She wasn’t wrong, or disturbed, just minorly ill sometimes.

“Diamond City?” Preston guessed. The Castle was too far out, and too many ways to get in and out to keep covered with the forces they had. “Just for a little while.” he agreed. “Until we catch him.”

Yvette shuddered. “I want his head Preston. I _want_ his head.” she whispered.

He didn’t reply; revenge, bloodthirstiness, those weren’t things the Minute Men encouraged. Although given the circumstances, he understood. He just didn’t know what to say.

****[Diamond City]** **

This was apparently going to be his last chance to prove his worth to his mate; the wall around the city and its helmeted Bloatfly guards were a bit more of a nuisance than a turret and a closed door. Mason tried to temper his irritation with hope and lust--if she had gone to nest in such a crowded place, if she was relying on someone else’s security instead of her own, _maybe_ they’d managed to breed. Maybe she was inside the place, rounded by fertility and success and just waiting for him to get to her.

Just thinking of his mate with a big round belly and swollen breasts, droplets of milk hanging like overripe mutfruit from fat nipples had Mason reaching into his pants for a quick stroke. From his hiding place inside a boarded up cafe, he could do so in relative safety. Spitting into his palm, Mason thrust into his fist, clenching it hard; not as good as his mate, not as satisfying, but thinking about how good her skin would look stretched taught over his brood, how sweet and nurturing her milk would be for their young _and_ him had him painting the space under the window white in a few pumps. He didn’t bother trying to wipe it down or cover it up; let it be a calling card, a memorial to his dedication to his mate. Let Packs gather in the Commonwealth and take some goddamn notes on what it takes to get a strong mate.

Peering through the gaps in the boards over the windows, Mason waited. Like prey, the fools drew up in their walled den and sat smug in an un-guaranteed safety, too confident that no foxes or wolves or Mutants could get to them. He was sure his mate knew better, was sure that whatever hole she was nesting in would be trapped with alerts at least, especially if she was as swollen with child as he hoped. As the sun dipped past the horizon, he slipped out of the cafe and slunk from shadow to shadow to get to the weak spot in the wall.

To their credit, _most_ of the wall was solid enough that breaching it would take tools and time he didn’t have to spend. And in fairness, Mason wasn’t exactly looking forward to contorting and twisting and folding up to slither his way through a spot where two sheets of plywood had peeled away from each other; snaking wasn’t his usual MO on a normal raid. But this wasn’t technically a raid. Sure if something looked good and he could carry it out, he would, but the goal was to _finally_ get his mate’s approval. So Mason twisted and pressed, ignoring discomfort and scraped skin and a decent cut from an exposed nail as he worked his way through the Wall. Thankfully it wasn’t a section that ended in cinder block; just a wire grate and more plywood he could push out of the way in careful inches between guard steps.

The air on the inside was stale, full of meat smoke and shit and pretended civility; it turned Mason’s stomach, all this weakness on full display and his mate tolerating it in any capacity? She _had_ to be pregnant for this bullshit to seem like a good idea. Inside the wall, it was a warren; rings of doors and hidey holes. He decided to go up to get a good idea of the layout and avoid the lights and people still walking around. His mate had gotten Nuka-World up and running before she’d come back to this sad run, but even those lights were less abrasive than the screaming lights over this place. The _only_ benefit of them being so bright was that it made the shadows darker and better to hide in.

As Mason worked his way from shadow to shadow, trying to sort through the cross-trails that muddled his mate’s, a noise from a nearby cubby caught his attention. It was the steady whir of a turret; the only turret he’d heard at this level. A turret, in a warren full of people and movement. And so close--if the air wasn’t stale and clogged, he could’ve caught the scent of oil and gas coming off the little shed it was in. “ _Bingo_.” Mason muttered under his breath, dropping low and creeping along the tin and wood. Turrets could be twitchy bastards; some you could walk right up on from behind and be safe, and others would start taking potshots at anything that moved, even garbage caught in a breeze.

Peering through a gap in the aluminum siding that wrapped the shed, Mason could make out a trapdoor under the turret. Even if it didn’t lead right down to his mate’s nest, it would get him into a den, which in a proper warren would get him _eventually_ to the place he wanted to be. All he had to do was get it disabled and out of the way without getting shot or caught. Mason rolled his shoulders and worked a good stretch on his neck. He could manage; he _had_ to, after all.

It was a little disappointing to discover the turret’s faulty combat inhibitor; it hadn’t been properly maintained, which wasn’t like his mate at all. But if she was heavy with a brood, maybe she couldn’t get up here to take care of it. And just like with the dopey Minute Men, she didn’t have reliable help around. The hinges on the trapdoor were clean and opened silently, allowing him to get a look down without giving himself away.

A ladder led to a little platform, to little stairs and bigger platform lower down. Mason squinted, opening the trapdoor fully to let himself down; he could grip the edge and lower himself down, ignoring the ladder in favor of easing down for a quieter landing. He didn’t shut the door behind him. Better to keep pushing forward than risk turning around. Easing down the short steps to the next landing, he froze. Away from the choking air outside, he could finally scent proper; and there was _no_ mistaking this scent.

This scent, that clung to a scrap of denim he kept on him; that had cut through smoke and coppery blood, filled a tiny room, followed him in his dreams and kept him focused. Mason couldn’t stifle the chuckle as light from the open trapdoor caught the very edge of a tripwire at the top of the next set of stairs going down. Oh yeah…he was _right_ where he was supposed to be.

Her nest was dark but for a lantern on a box next to the bed; between that and the light still coming in from the open trapdoor, he had just enough shadow to catch a few more tripwires and tin-can alarms she’d put up. Not her best traps, not the hardest to get past--the coil trap at the bottom of the stairs was a little more like her, but Mason caught sight of it just in time to grab the core from its center and disable it. She’d put it there for him, he knew, because it was high up. She would’ve had to stretch to get it in his sight-line, even standing on the steps; it was a caution, not a threat.

Mason’s head was buzzing, mouth open to catch the taste of her on the air as he made his way closer to the bed. His mate’s back was to him, broader than he remembered it being before; that thought fed his hope and made his step quick, which was a huge mistake. Just before he could reach the bedside, something clanked and the room brightened hard and fast; looking down, he saw the broken end of a line disappearing into the box by the bed. Tripped up at the very end, like a fool.

***

A few months in Diamond City had had Yvette ready to go back out alone, danger or not. It was as close to a city as the Commonwealth had to offer, but months of wandering had apparently spoiled her for living in such tight quarters. Even with the McDonough business cleaned up and Genevieve still grateful and giving her a little more leeway about what would be allowed inside the Wall and her home, it was an unsatisfying place to stay. Too crowded, too noisy, full of squabbling and banality that chafed.

She tried to ignore the dissatisfaction, tried to keep in her mind that it was only temporary; that her men would find Mason and put him down and she could go back to her new normal life with just the regular threats of the Commonwealth instead of this horrible, intimate threat. Sleep didn’t help the unhappiness either; Martin’s sweet, scarred face didn’t always come to her now, replaced by a hulking grinning redhead with tracks of paint still on his face. Worse yet was when it was both of them, and she woke up aching and soaked. Bastard, traitorous body!

But as the days slid into weeks into months, sleep--even disturbing sleep--was about the only respite there was to be had. Preston sent updates regularly, never mentioning what he’d witnessed, regular field reports that gave no comfort; the neighbors were nosy and noisy, eager for gossip and quite content to make up what they didn’t know. Piper at least had the grace to ask questions to her face, but that didn’t stop the rumor mill in the slightest. No, she was _trapped_ in another tiny place, watching things happen that she could do nothing about. It was hell.

And always, always, the lurking fear that one day she would be in the market and see _him_. Head and shoulders above the crowd, eyes blazing, heading for her like a mini-nuke from a Fat Man. It wasn’t rational--the guards knew not to let any hulking redhead past (which had caused problems with a couple of traders, _but_ celebrity safety and all…), they would shoot on sight--but she still heard him growling, heard that threat that he would find her again. He had already done so twice, what was _really_ stopping him from doing it again?

That was why she had blocked off the second door on the first floor of her home in Diamond City; why there was a Tesla trap on the wall to the stairs that led up to the area she’d turned into something like a bathroom, with its water tap access, why there were cans strung up and trip lines all over the floor. The turret on the roof had been a stretch, and she’d had to have it aimed away from the marketplace, but it was there too (although someone would have to voluntarily walk up to it and stand right there in front of it to get hit by it). And there was no part of her that hoped they all failed. Not one single fiber hoped that; no matter what state she woke up in, no matter what kind of dreams rattled her sleep, she didn’t hope for one second to wake up impaled again.

Martin had done that sometimes, when he was too eager to wait for her to awaken proper. She liked it then, liked that he was always so hungry for her, for _them_ together. Shaun had probably even been conceived in such a dreamy state of desire. But that was between two people that were deeply, madly, _passionately_ in love. That was allowed, that made sense. What had happened at Oberland, at the Rocket, that didn’t make sense. They were mistakes, and the next time she set out to clean out a den of Raiders, she was going to drop grenades in until whatever structure they were in fell apart, just to be sure no one came out after.

That hope that wasn’t there had made sleep even more difficult the past few days; Yvette didn’t so much sleep as doze, lying there in lamplight with a gun in her hand, startling at noises that didn’t matter. That was another problem with living in such close quarters; too many noises to account for and to tolerate. That was why she’d finally given in and worked a trip line into the wiring; if it was popped, even if she was genuinely asleep, the lights would wake her, and she would be _ready_.

‘Ready’ was a relative term. As the room filled with light and Yvette’s eyes popped open, she sat up as fast as she could manage, pistol out, aiming high for a tall bastard’s head…but she didn’t pull the trigger. Couldn’t make her finger curl the way it needed to even as their eyes met. The grin, that manic grin, slid off his face as he stared down at her. For a moment, just a silly, brief moment, his face was Martin’s--boyish, sweet even. He was going to a slow kneel, unblinking, hands reaching out. All she had to do was pull the trigger.

Mason’s hands rested on her stomach, covering the little swell and her own hand that had started reflexively going to it. His hands were just as tremendous, just as rough-feeling as before…but they trembled, resting on her body the way they were. He looked up at her, not even flinching as she slowly pressed the barrel against his temple. All she had to do was _pull the trigger_.

***

Hard to believe that such a tiny little flutter under his palms would grow up into a full Pack member, Mason thought as he took the measure of his mate. The jab of the gun against his head didn’t matter; she had to remind him where his place was, even as they sat in silence with three hands on her belly. Her milk hadn’t come in yet that he could tell; her breasts’ fullness was still just that same seductive fullness that begged for his mouth.

He let one hand trail down her round little belly, meaning to slip it between her thighs and tend to her needs. That was the difference between them and the kinds of animals that went in cages; a mated woman with a burgeoning belly still had desires that needed tending to, a fact that he’d definitely relished proving a couple of times before. But never like this, never with _his_ mate. She was anxious, jabbing his temple harder with the gun. He’d have to go slower, go easier. Being bred had gotten her skittish, and he understood that. After all, no one had done a reliable job of watching her back; she was an Alpha without a reliable Pack.

Mason held his breath as his fingers brushed against damp hair; had she scented him in her sleep? The thought thrilled him. He brushed the dampness, dragged his knuckles against her plump lips, keeping quiet and waiting for her permission. The gun didn’t leave his head but her thighs spread. He wanted to go down lower, push her back on the bed, get under her shirt and that wonderful little belly and get his tongue on and inside. He had to settle, at least for now, for playing with her; tracing the curve of her lips, spreading them so his fingers could rest on either side of her nub and rub. It was too soft to play with proper at the moment, but the blush was rising in her cheeks and that meant the blood was rushing everywhere. When she was firm, he would give it the proper squeezes and fire her up.

The heady scent of her arousal got stronger as he played with her, and her nub stood out more, demanding his attention. _Goddamn_ he wanted to suck on it, tease the drips out of her; but there was still a gun to his head, so he had to settle for rolling it between his fingers, squeezing and tugging at it. Mason watched her face, watched her struggle to keep the hardness in her eyes, panting softly with an open mouth. He was so close to getting her acceptance--she just had to come a little more, he realized. Made sense, she probably didn’t fuck below her station, didn’t waste her time on weaklings that wouldn’t keep up. No, no she needed stamina and strength and smarts in her mate. Made sense; anything less would mean a weak brood.

His mate’s head tipped back, hand ripping free from his to grip the bed, gun slamming onto the mattress as she came. It didn’t go off; her finger hadn’t been on the trigger, meaning it had all been for show--Mason growled, hands going up to her breasts to feel them for just a moment before pressing her back. She let him push her down, and he finally got to bury his face between her thighs. The scent was strong and heady, and even just burying his nose in her bush for the scent left his chin and lips damp.

“Oh Boss…what a fine state you’re in.” he said before spreading her lips wide with his thumbs, holding her spread so he could drag his tongue along all that wet, eager pinkness. She tasted strong, salty sweat and a little bitter, but finishing sweet. He lapped at her, pressing his face against her, unable to help snuffing against her nub as he tried to get a deeper taste. He could’ve done that a few more minutes, but there was a closer spot that needed his attention. Mason fastened his lips around her nub and sucked hard, then rolled his tongue across the whole of it. It was hot, flushed red with arousal, and it tasted as much like heaven as the rest of her. His mate moaned softly for the attention, and he kept it up, sucking and rolling and tasting until her thighs tried to close. He managed to get his hands up in time to push them back, fighting her open like a bear trap; he wasn’t ready to stop, even as his cock throbbed inside his pants. She tasted too good, her scent was too right, for him to stop at one.

Mason didn’t bother timing how long he spent licking up her slickness, sucking her nub, mouthing her thighs; only an idiot cared about how long it took with to mate. But he had come to the point where it hurt to be in his pants, hurt even more to be let free. He _needed_ to mount her. But when he stood up and made ready to do so, she stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“You’ll hurt…you’ll…you’ll _hurt_.” she said, letting go of the gun to put that hand on her belly as she tried to hold him off.

He couldn’t help the growl of frustration even as his heart turned. She had let go of the gun. She was protecting their young inside her. _He was accepted_.

When he offered her his hands to help her sit up, she took them. _He was accepted_.

She didn’t fight him as he took of her shirt. _Accepted_.

Mason knelt down again, this time wrapping an arm around her waist and burying his face in her breasts. He snuffed and snorted, catching soft skin between his lips and sucking, keeping his teeth back as his hand went down to stroke his cock. He could deal with his fist again for now, as long as he still got to savor her sweat and her heartbeat and her softness against him. It was silly, but when she wrapped her arm around him, pressed his head closer to her chest, he came. The orgasm was almost as strong as the first one he’d shared with her, and it left him weak and trembling under her touch. _His mate had accepted him_.

***

When the dead man--Mason--when Mason knelt slowly, and reached out with his massive hands, and laid them softly against her stomach, he was so much like Martin in that moment that Yvette nearly cried. Her husband--her sweet, hulking, soldier boy--had done the same thing when he found out they were expecting. He’d fallen to his knees and reached out, looking up at her with absolute wonderment. There’d never been a question of what they would do; never a doubt that she and the baby were all his, and he and the baby were all hers. They would be a family.

And this wild man--beastly, hulking wild man--did the same. He didn’t flinch when she pressed the gun to his head, didn’t lose the wonder on his face as he stared at her wide-eyed with his calloused, weather-beaten hands lying so softly on her body. Even when one hand dipped down between her legs and brushed against her sex, she couldn’t pull the trigger. Yvette held the gun against him, sure, but she couldn’t make make it happen. She sat there, with his fingers toying with her lips, teasing around her clit, pressing a gun against his head and barely breaking eye contact.

It was another traitorous orgasm, hard and coming from deep within. She couldn’t stifle the moan, couldn’t keep her grip on the gun or her balance without putting both hands on the bed to brace herself. Mason growled, hands going to her breasts. He didn’t squeeze them, didn’t really bother them except to stroke his thumbs along the curve; when he pressed her lightly, Yvette laid back without a fight. Her heart was hammering in her throat, body throbbing with need and the gun was still in reach. She could fight back--

\--or, she thought as Mason pressed his face against her sex and nuzzled it, huffing warmly, muttering something that might’ve started with ‘Boss’--or she could let at least this happen. She hadn’t felt a tongue on her clit since before the bombs felt; it was a sensation she missed, something she liked to feel as much as she liked to perform. And Mason’s tongue was strong, flat and broad and rough, and he was either well-practiced or just greatly intuitive because he kept her guessing. He licked and teased and sucked, but didn’t bite, didn’t stop every two seconds to ask if she’d come or complain about a sore mouth. She came and tried to close her legs, protect herself, but he wasn’t having it. He pushed her thighs apart and held them apart.

It wasn’t like before, it wasn’t hard and cruel with fingers and nails and bruises that started dark and only got darker as the days went on, that took forever to clear up in ugly shades of purple and green; this time he held her thighs apart with the flat of his palms, wide enough for him to be between without straining her hips. He wasn’t coming up for air either, huffing and catching breaths and then immediately going back to her clit; like he couldn’t get enough of the taste of her. The next orgasms came easier, faster; if he didn’t stop, she would start to drip off the bed. And still, she didn’t reach for the gun.

When he stood up, and she saw the full length and breadth of him, Yvette panicked. The tip, that fat knob with its cruel ridged edge that flared so proud away from the shaft, streamed sticky clear fluid; his cock was too long and too thick to point at his belly, hanging down with menace and promise. His dark, heavy sac drew up and relaxed in a pulse, eager and full. She finally saw what had put her in such a state, and its wildness and familiarity frightened her. She threw a hand out, trying to ignore any thrill that might come from pressing her palm against the hardness of a man who had earned his muscle from life and not a gym regime.

“You’ll hurt--you’ll--you’ll _hurt_!” Yvette stammered, letting go of the gun without thinking to slap a hand against her stomach, trying to draw his attention to it. If he had actually cared about making her pregnant, then he should care about being careful with her. She hoped, anyway.

He growled…and then his expression softened. He even gave a little nod and offered her both of his hands, pulling her back up into a sit without straining her shoulders.

That threw her for such a loop, Yvette didn’t resist as he took her sleep shirt off.

Something else Martin had liked to do in play was stroke himself against her breasts, rub himself on her like a horny hound until he came and stickied her breasts with cum. It was a silly, playful thing, and until the cum dried, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant feeling. She’d liked kissing his belly and sucking his fingers when he stuck them in her mouth as he stroked off.

She thought briefly that that might be what Mason was going to do next, but then he knelt down again, sitting on his knees and wrapping an arm around her waist. It was a firm grip, but not the painful, mean grip she’d had from him before. He rested his head against her, opening his mouth and kissing her skin sloppily, leaving little round wet spots but no bruises. The other hand was out of her line of sight, but there was no mistaking what it was busy doing. A surprisingly high-pitched whimper burst out of him; eyes screwed shut, keening and sucking at her like a baby, stroking his cock hard, because she had stopped him earlier. Yvette, without thinking again, wrapped a tender arm around him. She felt rough stubble and old scars, traced the seashell curve of his ear with her fingertips, and waited. He still hadn’t bit her, not once this time. Why that stuck out to her, she wasn’t sure.

When he came, it was obvious; the keening turned into a proper moan, then a shout, and he sagged against her. Now his cheek rested against her belly, and the active little thing inside would probably start kicking at them both again. Judging from the sounds around them, Diamond City was starting to wake up. They’d been at this for a good long while, apparently.

Mason looked up at her. “Let’s go back. To Nuka-World. To the Den.” he said softly.

Yvette frowned, opening her mouth to answer, but he cut her off.

“I ain’t living in this shit, this fake _civilization_ shit,” he spat. “So you can fuckin’ forget any idea like that.”

That raised her ire hard and fast, for reasons she wasn’t exactly sure of. “Listen to me asshole, I live where I want with who I want, doing _what_ I want. I will not go back to Nuka-World to be a dumb fucking Raider who cannot tell his own asshole from a hole in the dirt.” she spat. “If I go back, it is to work with the traders and the settlers, to defend what is _mine_ , what I earned by my actions. I will go back because it is mine, not for caps and not to get into pissing contests with stupid bastards who left most of their brains running down their mama’s legs!”

He looked up at her with a stunned expression. “Fine. _Fine_. You don’t wanna collar’em, I think it’s bad idea, but _fine_. Keep the weaklings in line by other means, however the hell you do that. I dunno how you do it, but I seen the proof. You’re good at it.”

Just how goddamn long had he been following her?! How many settlements had he seen that had bloomed under her care? If he still had his group behind him, that would’ve been the worst news: it would have meant he was watching, gathering numbers, judging defenses, planning out how to overrun and take over. Of course, if she had missed any other Pack members, she would _probably_ be dead well before now instead of just pregnant and confused.

To make things worse, it was almost a seductive offer. Living in Diamond City for the long-term wasn’t ideal for her, let alone her and the man at her feet who was supposed to be shot on-sight. There were settlements enough, but by now every one of the Minute Men in the Commonwealth knew or could guess at what had happened to send the General into hiding; she had lost dignity, even if they didn’t say as much directly to her. She should really shoot Mason in the face for that; for the audacity, for the bruises, for the fear he’d put her through. So why wasn’t she? Why was she even entertaining the thought of going back to Nuka-World _with_ him?! No matter how much he made her think of Martin, she should _not_ be thinking anything positive besides positively putting him out of her misery.

Yvette licked her lips. “I mean it Mason. No collars. Nuka-World will _never_ be as it was before I became the Over-Boss.” she jabbed him in the shoulder with her finger on every word to emphasize the point.

He snarled softly, looking away from her, eyes rolling in clear frustration. Then he turned back to her and sighed deeply through the nose. “I get it Boss. I know where I stand. Remember, I’m Pack through and through. I know where I stand.” he repeated.

She had no idea what that meant. She only knew that his arm around her waist was warm, the child inside of her was kicking, and Diamond City was an _awful_ and rigid place to live. “Let go.” she pushed his arm away and got to her feet shakily.

“Boss--”

Yvette ignored him, wiggling away and looking down to find a cleanish spot to set her feet. She peeked slyly at the mess he’d made on her floor; no wonder she was pregnant. Shaking her head, she toed her way past the other hidden trip wires to the corner she set up as the kitchen and began pulling food off the shelf; the preserved stuff, the canned stuff, stuff that travelled decently.

“The hell are you doing Boss?” Mason called out.

“Listen to me very closely. I am going to pack a pack for you, and you are going to get out by whatever way you got in, because if the Diamond City guards see you, _they will shoot you_.” she began, turning around and stepping out to where he could see her. “There is a Slocumb Joe’s about a kilometer, maybe a little less, away from here. Go there, and wait. I will come to you, and you will know what I have decided by how I come to you. _Tu comprendes?_ You understand, yes?”

Mason nodded, getting to his feet and tucking his cock away, mimicking her steps until he got to the stairs that led up to the landing with the tub. “Yeah, I got it.”

“ _Bien_.” she took the risk of turning her back to him and busied herself with the pack. Food, some damn soap and a rag, utensils…she even went to the dresser and pulled a few pieces of clothing from _the_ drawer* to tuck in with everything else.

Yvette carried the pack to him, huffing a little now; lifting and carrying stole her breath a little more easily now that she was showing. He took it from her easily. “I’ll get out. Won’t be the same way I got in, not with this. But I’ll go where you said.” he said heavily, expression pained.

“One more thing,” she said even as her good sense railed against the next idea. This time she went to a battered trunk under the stairs, and pulled out a souvenir from the Harbour. The knife was long, meant to help separate meat from tough Mirelurk shell; weighty and with a dark wood handle. It was uncomfortable for her to grip, and that was why it had gone into the trunk, wrapped in a layer of newsprint and then canvas. “Hurt no one as you leave.” she said softly, offering it up the stairs. “Now you can go.”

Mason didn’t say anything, taking the parcel in hand. He went up the stairs and left as quietly as he had come in, steps that did not match his size. Yvette watched him go, common sense and body screaming for different reasons. She stood at the foot of the stairs until her back ached, moving then to the bed. When she rose, Yvette told herself, she would know what exactly she was going to do.

***

Mason didn’t know what to expect when he said what he said, about going back to Nuka-World and the Den. That’s why he’d added the part about Diamond City; it was the truth, and he owed his mate the honest, brutal truth.

Her eyes went hard in that instant, and she was venomous and fast as a rad-scorpion with it. “Listen to me asshole,” she said, jabbing him hard in the shoulder and drawing blood with her nail, “I live where I want with who I want, doing _what_ I want. I will _not_ go back to Nuka-World to be a dumb fucking Raider who can’t tell his own asshole from a hole in the dirt!”

Mason swallowed; she could shit on other Raiders however much she wanted, because most of them were that stupid. But if she meant him too…that’d hurt in a way all her kicks and scratches and punches couldn’t touch. He couldn’t afford to be a weakling in her eyes; strong Alphas _needed_ strong mates, and she’d only just given up her approval.

“ _If_ I go back,” she continued, “it is to work with the traders and the settlers, to defend what is _mine_ , what I earned by my actions. I will go back because it is mine, _not_ for caps and _not_ to get into pissing contests with stupid bastards who left most of their brains running down their mama’s legs!” she finished hotly.

His shoulder was sore from her constant jabbing, and the idea of working with the weaklings pissed him off. But what she said about defending _hers_ , what she earned? He could get behind that; _boy_ could he get behind that. “Ok, _fine_.” he said irritably. “You don’t wanna collar’em, fine. It’s a bad fuckin’ idea, but fine, handle it your way. You can keep the weaklings in line however the way you do it; I dunno how, but I seen the proof. You’re good at it.” There wasn’t any shame in saying that out loud; he’d tracked her from Nuka-World all over the goddamn Commonwealth and seen and heard for himself how well she ran things, even if it was in a weird old way.

Mason watched her face, watched the hardness go in and out of her eyes, watched her lips flex and twist around words she apparently wasn’t ready to let out. Her tongue darted out and slid along her bottom lip, and he thought about trying for another round; maybe even getting inside if he could convince her he’d take care of her and their brood.

Then she broke the spell. “I _mean_ it Mason. No collars. Nuka-World will _never_ , _ever_ be the way it was before I was Over-Boss.” she pointed at him sternly. “Never.”

Mason looked away; she’d said his name but she was also laying down some rules that he just didn’t like. That was the way it was sometimes though, wasn’t it? Challenging the rules meant challenging the Alpha, and that wasn’t his place anymore. His palms itched where his child had kicked at him through her; he had a different place now, and he had to accept that. Mason sighed, looking back up at her. His mate; his tigress mate. He sighed. “I get it Boss, I do. I _know_ where I stand, I do. Pack through and through. I know where I stand.” he repeated. Didn’t bother adding that it was wherever she wanted him to stand; she’d know that.

She went quiet for a moment, just sitting and letting him have his arm around her waist, share the space with her. For a second--not even a full second, half a second--he thought he could do _this_. Live in a walled city, walk upright, _be a “good” boy_ …just for this privilege.

“Boss…” he started, but she shushed him with a look as she pulled away from his touch.

He thought he’d overstepped, but she was just getting to her feet, avoiding the spunk he’d left on her floor. A waste, but he could make up for it later. Mason watched her tiptoe to the kitchen, noting where more trip lines lay before grabbing her shirt and using it to mop up his mess. He heard noises from the kitchen, things banging around. “The hell are you doing over there, Boss?”

“Packing.” she said.

Surprised, he got to his feet, righting his pants and following her tiptoe path to get as far as the stairs. “Boss?”

His mate turned around, eyes serious. “Listen to me _very closely_ ,” she said, “I am packing you a pack--you have to get out of here by however you got in here, because if these guards see you, they will shoot you. There is a Slocumb Joe’s not very far from the wall; I want you to go there and wait for me. I will come to you, and you will know if I am going or staying by how I come to you. You understand me?”

Mason nodded; made sense. If she had changed her mind and rejected him, she’d come guns blazing and wouldn’t let him live this time. If she was still content, it’d just be her and they’d get the hell out of this noisy, chafing bullshit and back at least to the Den. Things wouldn’t be the same, but he’d have his mate and they’d work it out for the brood. “Yeah, I got it.” His mate was good at giving clear terms.

She crossed the room and slid more things into the pack, huffing when she brought it to him. He took it quickly so she wouldn’t strain, and the smaller bundle she offered up. There wasn’t time to say any kind of goodbye, as the noise outside was picking up and the light streaming through the trapdoor had gone from burning halogen to actual sun. It was probably still early enough that, with care, Mason could essentially stroll out the gate without getting shot. It made him feel good that she’d warned him; he didn’t have to worry about being tested anymore, at least for the time being.

****[Slocumb Joe’s]** **

It was kind of funny that the place she sent him was the same one he’d hidden in earlier; not like she wouldn’t know the area, not like she probably didn’t have at least a dozen places in her mind at a time when she traveled, it was just funny that they’d both picked the same place at different times. Mason sat down with the the supplies to try and gauge what her answer was from them. There was food, not enough really for two but not enough for one if one was him or one was her in her condition; but it was a start. A couple of pieces of clothing, could be for her or for him; tight fits either way for different reasons. There wasn’t a clear answer in the pack.

Then he unwrapped the bundle.

The knife* had a decent length, curved and thin and sharp. It gleamed in the light coming between the boards over the windows, faint color showing along the flat from the oil that kept it rust-free. He sniffed it--Mirelurk, that’d explain the sheen. The handle was round and black, a hard wood he didn’t recognize, and it nestled in his palm like it was made to sit there. He gave the air a couple of slow, practice swipes, watching how the light rode the sharp edge. It’d be an intimate stick, close and personal and more likely fatal than not. This knife was meant to separate the meat and bone, sever connections neat and clean and fast; a mean, deadly thing.

His mate had given him one of her claws.

Mason kissed the handle and the blade. There were bootlaces tucked into a tiny pocket on the pack his mate had given him, and he used them to net a cord to hang the claw from. He’d wear it proud, keep it close at hand and heart. It made the waiting easier…barely.

Eventually though, his mate did come. She had a pack on her back, smaller than the one she’d given him, and he didn’t begrudge that. Her strength was for the brood for the moment; he could carry for both of them.

“Let’s go. I want to be in Nuka-World before the baby comes.” she said.

“Yes, Boss.” It’d be slower going than when he was tracking her, but he was pretty sure they could get to the tram and Nuka-World before she dropped. They’d get back to the Den, and he’d work hard to keep her satisfied; just like a good mate should.

**Author's Note:**

> This was an idea and a whole lot of kinks that I haven't written before, and I was trying to experiment with a 'he said/she said' kind of style. That's why some of the details don't exactly line up between the perspectives. The whole thing was just one big experiment, and I appreciate that you've read to at least this point :D
> 
> *About the drawer: in every dresser in every settlement, Yvette keeps the middle drawer empty, because that was her husband's drawer. It's a bittersweet memorial  
> *In my head, the knife is a fancier up-sized version of a crab-picking knife


End file.
